


Lay me in the Furs and Love Me

by Beauty_In_Truth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauty_In_Truth/pseuds/Beauty_In_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To fill a prompt: Thorin laying Bilbo down on his furs and coat, and making love to him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay me in the Furs and Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this prompt and I can't remember where, or who asked it or if anyone else filled it, but it stuck with me, and after BOFA I sort of just needed to write this to make everything alright again. Enjoy!

“Where is he? Where is the halfing? _Where is Bilbo Baggins?_ ”

 

It is after the battle, where so many, too many have died, and those that remain are left to pull themselves, their world, back together. Thorin knows he should be with his sister-sons, his people, helping them as they move the wounded to beds and shift the rubble. Knows he should working to comfort the grieving. Knows he should be all that a good King should be, but all he think of, all he can feel, is the overwhelming panic coursing through him, drumming in his head, as he searches and searches and finds no sign of the Hobbit.

 

He grabs anyone he can find, man, elf, dwarf, and all give him the same pitying look, the same shake of the head. _No they have not seen the Hobbit._ And he is left to rush on, to keep searching frantically, desperately.

 

He wants to pray, though he has not in years, he wants to beg; he makes bargains as he strides along, bargains with the old Gods, with the Earth, with himself. Please, _please_ let the Hobbit be okay. Please let him have survived Thorin’s stupidity, his failings as a King, as a friend. For all that Thorin has been given in this Kingdom, in the lives of his sister-sons and himself, please let him have this one thing more. _Please_ _Mahal_.

 

And there amongst the fallen ruins of Erebor, there he finds him.

 

Thorin’s heart seems to stop as he sees the limp arm that only be his Hobbit’s hanging limply over the rocks, and he rushes, runs to find Bilbo lying there, a wound to his head, blood on his face, his skin so pale. He falls to his knees; _please, please, please,_ he thinks wildly as his heavy, indelicate hands fumble over the Hobbit’s coat and his head falls down to press against Bilbo’s chest, where, _thank you , thank you, thank you,_ he finds a heartbeat that brings his own shuddering back to life.

 

Overwhelming relief floods through him and he lets his head rest on the halfing’s chest for moment, just to feel it fall and rise steadily beneath him. His shaking hands grip the clothe of the Hobbit’s coat tightly as he breathes in Bilbo’s scent; it is earth, and sun, and pipesmoke. It makes Thorin’s chest tighten.

 

Beneath him the Hobbit groans, and Thorin shoots up to gaze anxiously at Bilbo’s face, his hands moving to curl into the coat on Bilbo’s chest. He watches as Bilbo’s eyes flutter open, taking a moment to focus, before he’s squinting up at Thorin.  
  
“Thorin,” he says weakly. “You survived?”  
  
When Thorin speaks his voice is gruff, “Yes Halfing, I did. But I feared I had lost you.”  
  
“And the others?” Bilbo asks.

  
“Well,” Thorin assures him. “They are well. It is you I am worried about.”

 

“I’m fine,” Bilbo says, moving to shift himself up onto his elbows. He groans as he does so and Thorin’s hands flutter nervously to support him. “I’m fine,” Bilbo repeats, as he attempts a smile that is more of a wince, “just a little head wound.” He tries to push Thorin’s hands away, attempts to make his way to standing, only to stumble and sway. Thorin’s arms are around him immediately.

 

“You cannot walk halfing.”  
  
“I’m fi-” But before he can even finish the sentence Thorin’s arms have found their way under his legs, around his chest, and without quite knowing how it happened, Bilbo finds himself cradled against Thorin’s chest. “Oh! Thorin, put me down.” His hands push against Thorin’s chest. ”I’m fine - there’s others that need your help, I am sure -”

  
“Halfing,” Thorin says, his voice gentle but firm. “ _You_ need my help.” He pauses. “Let me do this for you. Please.” He swallows, pulls the hobbit tighter to him, gazes down into his eyes. “Please,” he repeats softly.

 

It takes but a moment as Bilbo considers Thorin thoughtfully before he relaxes into his strong arms, one hand coming up to grip the cut of Thorin’s undercoat as they begin to make their way back to the fortress. Thorin finds he can’t stop himself staring down at Bilbo as he moves, can’t stop himself appreciating how light the hobbit is, how warm and solid, how right he feels in Thorin’s arms. It makes something warm stirs in Thorin’s heart and leaves him feeling slightly breathless.

 

As they enter through the gates, Bilbo tenses and looks like he wants to climb down, but Thorin holds him tighter still, smiling as Fili and Kili run up. “Bilbo!” they cry, smiles on their faces. “Uncle was so worried.”

 

Bilbo blushes and looks to Thorin, who confirms this. “I was. So worried.”

 

Bilbo turns an even deeper shade of red still, his ears glowing as he looks away from Thorin to the boys. “You’re okay?” he asks.

  
“Fine,” says Kili, as Fili chimes, “Fine! Don’t worry about us, Master Baggins.”

 

“See,” says Thorin reprovingly as the boys rush back to help Dwalin where he is shifting a fallen rock. “It is you we must worry about.”

  
He carries Bilbo up stairways, and down corridors, until -

 

“Oh no,” Bilbo says. “You can’t possibly place me in here.”

  
“I can,” says Thorin, kicking the doors open. “I am.”

 

“But it’s your room,” Bilbo says weakly as he takes in the splendour of the bedroom around them. Everything seems to be lined in gold and intricate carvings. Before them is a heavy four poster bed, lined with furs.  
  
“Yes,” agrees Thorin, making his way over to the bed. “It is mine to do with as as I choose. And I choose to share it now with you.”

 

“Well, I...” Bilbo says, before he trails off, unsurely. He flexes his hand on Thorin’s undercoat, his fingers brushing the skin of chest and making Thorin’s heart jump. Thorin is well aware the little hobbit does not want to seem discourteous. “Well if you’re sure.”  
  
“I am.” It is with the greatest reluctance that Thorin lays the hobbit down, gently, so gently, onto the pile of furs on his bed. Bilbo is left seemingly overwhelmed; he lies there meekly, gazing up at Thorin with his big grey eyes.

 

“Stay,” Thorin commands him, and moves to the get some bandages, a dish of clean warm water, some oils to clean away the dirt.

 

He returns surprised to find the Hobbit has actually obeyed him; it worries Thorin, perhaps the wound is worse than it appears? His hands fly to cup Bilbo’s face gently, that he might stare properly into his eyes. “How do you feel Halfing?”

 

“Fine,” Bilbo murmurs faintly. He appears to shake himself, speaks more resolutely: “I’m fine, it’s just a surface wound.”

 

Thorin is not convinced. “Head wounds can be grievous,” he says. “I will take no chances with this, little hobbit.” He reaches for a cloth and dips it into the water and oils, begins to wipe the blood and dirt from the hobbit’s face, steady and gentle, as Bilbo appears to resign himself to being cared for.

  
“Do you know who I am?”

 

“I - what?” Bilbo splutters. “Of course I do.”

 

Thorin stares at him, and Bilbo realises he is waiting for an answer. He lets out a small huff. “You’re Thorin Oakenshield. King of Erebor. Idiot extraordinaire.”

  
Thorin resumes dabbing at his face, but he cannot fully hide the small smile that creeps onto his face.

  
“What were doing before you were hit?”

  
“Thorin,” Bilbo says.

  
“Answer the question Hobbit.”

  
“I was searching for you.” And then, because Thorin seems troubled by this he adds, “In that bloody big battle for Erebor. I don’t have concussion Thorin, I know what you’re trying to do.”

  
“Good,” says Thorin. “Then you won’t mind doing this.” He sets the cloth and water aside and holds up a finger before Bilbo’s face. “Touch my finger and then your nose as quickly as possible.”  
  
Bilbo wants to refuse, but Thorin’s face is set in stone and he knows there is little point in resisting. He quickly runs his finger from Thorin’s own to his nose and back again. “There,” he says. “Happy now?”

 

“Not quite,” Thorin says, gently moving his hand to crane Bilbo’s neck round and peering into each of his ears. His breath tickles the nape of Bilbo’s neck as he does so, and it makes Bilbo swat him away as another blush suffuses his cheeks.

  
“I’m fine!” Bilbo insists. But when he catches sight of Thorin’s face, set in the deepest of frowns as his eyes anxiously scan Bilbo's body, he relents and reaches out his own hand to cup Thorin’s face, that Thorin might meet his eyes once more. “Thorin,” he says softly, “I’m fine. _I’m fine_.”

 

Thorin’s shoulders relax incrementally and to Bilbo’s surprise he brings his hand up to enclose around Bilbo’s own, holding it gently to his face as he closes his eyes.

  
“I was so scared for you,” he says slowly, “I thought - I thought my stupidity had killed you. I couldn’t find you out on the battlefield and I searched for hours -” He swallows hard and his eyes open, blazing with such emotion that it makes Bilbo’s breathe catch. “I couldn’t have born it halfing. If you had died. If you had died and thought I was still angry, thought that I was still that weak man, fuelled by the madness - I couldn’t have borne it, to have lost you.”

 

“I’m here,” Bilbo says, his thumb stroking against the King’s cheek, against the soft brush of his beard. _“_ I’m here.”

 

Thorin nods, turns his head and, to Bilbo’s astonishment, nuzzles into his hand, his lips pressing a kiss to his palm. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being stronger than I was. For taking the Arkenstone.” Bilbo moves to pull his hand away, starts to protest, but Thorin grabs for it, grips it between his two palms. “No,” he says. “Please let me right my wrongs. You were a true friend, and I am eternally grateful, and truly ashamed of my actions, of the things I said. Please know it wasn’t true, any of it. The madness -”

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, bringing his other hand up to rest on top of Thorin’s. “I know it was the madness. I forgive you.”

Thorin stares down at their hands. When he speaks his voice is gruff, almost hoarse sounding, “I do not deserve your forgiveness halfing, but I am thankful for it.” He grips Bilbo’s hand tightly for a moment, then appears to compose himself. “I must apply these bandages to you. You might not have concussion, but we should work to avoid infection.”

 

Bilbo finds himself feeling rather bereft when Thorin lets his hand go in favour of reaching for the bandages. But when Thorin leans in, his hand gently carding through Bilbo’s hair to move it from the wound, it is almost as good, especially as he realises that this close he can see every small detail of Thorin’s face. Each piece of hair, each fine line etched into the skin, the way his lips part as he concentrates on securing the bandages. He finds himself breathless, his own lips parting as he leans into Thorin, into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut under the steady touch of Thorin’s hands.

 

He lets out a whimper as Thorin’s hands finally pull away, and his eyes flutter open to find Thorin looking at him, a smile curling on his lips. “Halfing,” he says, as Bilbo leans into him. “You are quite sure you feel well?”

 

Bilbo nods because he suddenly finds he cannot speak. There is silence as Thorin stares at him, but it is a loaded heavy silence, a silence that hangs on the precipice of something monumental. It is a silence that is unbearable. It is a silence that Bilbo breaks.

  
“Thorin.” His voice is needy, even to his ear, a breathy gasp as his hands become tangled up once more in Thorin’s shirt. “Thorin. Please.”

 

And Thorin does not deny him. His lips press gently to Bilbo’s cheek, to his bandaged wound, to his eyelids as they flutter shut, to his mouth as it parts. “Halfing,” he murmurs. “Halfing I cannot lose you.”

  
“You won’t,” Bilbo says against Thorin’s lips, his skin tingling in every place Thorin has kissed. “You won’t. I’m here. I’m yours.”

 

With a groan Thorin’s own hands tangle up into the hobbit’s hair and he steals Bilbo’s breathe away with the softest of kisses. “Halfing,” he whispers, as he presses kiss after gentle kiss to the hobbit’s mouth, his strong hands cradling Bilbo’s face. “Dearest halfing.” It leaves Bilbo feeling drunk on him, gasps escaping him as he leans into Thorin’s kisses, into the scratch of Thorin’s beard.

 

Closer and closer still Thorin draws Bilbo with every deepening kiss, Bilbo clutching him wantonly as his small body is cradled into the warmth of Thorin’s arms.  As Thorin’s tongue brushes against his lips a gasp escapes him and his mouth falls open, Thorin’s tongue slipping past his lips, and a deep groan reverberating through Thorin’s chest. Bilbo’s hands slip beneath Thorin’s shirt, to the warm, strong muscle beneath, and he has barely a moment to appreciate it before Thorin pulls away, his chest heaving beneath Bilbo’s fingers, his eyes dark, his lips swollen cherry red. When he speaks, his voice is so deep it runs straight through Bilbo, stirs the warmth within him: “Halfing, I want you so. Will you have me?”

 

“Yes,” Bilbo says impatiently, already leaning back in for more kisses, his fingers curling into the hair on Thorin’s chest. “Yes, yes, yes.”

 

With a laugh Thorin lifts Bilbo, _and oh, it’s delicious how easily he lifts Bilbo,_ and lays him down further into the bed, deeper in the pile of furs. Bilbo finds himself gazing up as Thorin leans over him, his arms of either side of Bilbo’s head, his body covering Bilbo’s. The look in his eyes is so - it’s too much. Too vulnerable. Too wanting. It makes Bilbo’s breath catch in his throat. He realises suddenly what this means to Thorin. What it means for him.

 

“Halfing,” Thorin says, as he stares down at Bilbo. And even though Bilbo is fully clothed it’s so intense it’s the most naked he has ever felt. “Bilbo. I love you so.”

  
And then his mouth is once more against Bilbo’s, his kisses no longer sweet, but heavy with desperation, with adoration. He is groaning Bilbo’s name against his tingling lips, his rough, large hands running up to his chest to release the buttons of his coat, his undershirt, running over the soft skin beneath as Bilbo melts beneath him.

 

Bilbo slips his own hand up to grab Thorin’s braids as Thorin’s mouth drifts from his mouth to neck, pressing long kiss after long kiss to the skin there, drifting lower and lower still as his mouth brushes across the skin on Bilbo’s chest, lingering on his nipples as Bilbo arches into Thorin’s mouth. This time it is him gasping Thorin’s name, a mewl in his throat as Thorin pulls a nipple gently between his teeth, his beard scratching at the sensitive skin there.

 

Lower still Thorin’s mouth drifts, until his hands are fumbling with Bilbo’s belt. It clatters to the floor forgotten as Bilbo uses Thorin’s braids to pull him back up, to kiss him soundly, to mewl against his mouth at the heat he feels inside, at how good Thorin’s body feels on top of his, covering and encasing him completely; he is so warm, and so solid, and Bilbo has never felt smaller, or more safe, especially as Thorin pulls away with a gasp and gazes down at him as though Bilbo is the most precious thing he has ever seen.

  
Bilbo can’t stand it any more, he ruts up into Thorin, another moan escaping him at the friction and the groan Thorin releases. Another desperate kiss against his lips, and then Thorin is pulling away, pulling away the last of Bilbo’s clothes, and drinking Bilbo in. But Bilbo doesn’t want to wait, he reaches for Thorin, tries to open his shirt and release him of it; he wants Thorin as naked as he, but his hands don’t seem to be working properly, they slide ineffectually away as Thorin presses a kiss to his stomach, and says, “So beautiful.”

 

“Too many clothes,” Bilbo grunts in return, and it is with the greatest of disappointment that he finds Thorin lifting himself from Bilbo, off the bed, leaving Bilbo alone, the fur soft against his naked skin, a shiver running through him at the loss of Thorin.

 

But then he realises Thorin is divesting himself of his clothing quickly and efficiently, and everything is okay once more as Thorin’s clothes fall to the ground until he is as naked as Bilbo, and it’s _glorious_. He is a true king, Bilbo thinks hazily as he drinks Thorin in. Lines of solid muscle, scars that wind along his skin, thick hair that courses from his chest to his thick cock, which stands jutting proudly from a nest of dark hair. Bilbo’s mouth waters at the sight of him. He longs to touch. He doesn’t have to wait long, Thorin is climbing on top of him once more, his warm body pressed against Bilbo’s, his cock brushing Bilbo’s thigh, and it’s so delicious Bilbo feels he could float away on it. But Thorin’s hand on his cock brings him straight back to earth, a sharp gasp escaping him as he rolls into Thorin’s hand. “Please, Thorin,” he says, not even knowing what he is asking for. “ _Please_.”

  
Thorin leans in to kiss him once more, and Bilbo meets him greedily, burning up in Thorin's hand as Thorin strokes him surely, steadily. It’s not enough, it’s too much, Bilbo whimpers into the kiss, runs his hands down Thorin’s back, back up into his braids. “Thorin - I need -” He gasps. “I need more.”

 

A kiss pressed to his shoulder as Thorin’s fingers drifts from his cock, lower still, teasing gently across the soft skin of him until they find his hole. They tease him there, never quite entering inside as Thorin looks down on Bilbo with such tenderness in his eyes. “Is this enough my little hobbit?”

 

Bilbo shakes his head, pulls Thorin back down for another kiss. “More,” he whispers through kiss swollen lips.

  
Thorin’s other hand reaches for the oils he’d left with the bandages, and then there are oiled fingers teasing his hole, slipping inside as Bilbo’s fingers curl up into the furs and he pants and pants, pushing himself down to meet the thick coarse finger of Thorin. “More,” he cries, and as Thorin presses another kiss to his shoulder a second finger joins the first, the two stretching him open, and filling him up with his dwarf, this beautiful dwarf he loves, and Bilbo can only gasp and gulp for air, can only reach out to grasp Thorin’s strong biceps as he tried to ground himself, eyes shut as his chest heaves. “Thorin,” he wails as Thorin crooks the two fingers, stokes him inside and makes sparks emerge behind Bilbo’s eyelids. “I want you. _I want you_.” Another kiss to his shoulder and the fingers are slipping free, only to be replaced by the blunt warm head of Thorin’s cock. Bilbo gasps, and searches for Thorin’s mouth, presses his lips hungrily against Thorin’s as Thorin eases his way inside of Bilbo, stretching him, filling him, joining them as Bilbo moans and gasps; he thinks he is falling apart, Thorin is so -

  
“More halfing?” Thorin whispers as he ceases to move and he peppers Bilbo’s face with kisses. Bilbo can’t answer him, can only gasp helplessly. He has never felt so full, he can’t - he feels as though he will burn into a crisp, as though he will be split open. Thorin hands take each of Bilbo’s and he winds their fingers together, splaying their hands out beside **B** ilbo’s head, his chest glistening with sweat, his biceps flexing as he says gently, “Look at me Bilbo.” And Bilbo does, and just like that he’s grounded, grounded in Thorin’s love more him, grounded by how gently Thorin is holding him even now. “More,” Bilbo says with a nod. And Thorin doesn’t look away from him as he slides slowly deeper in, until they are fully joined, and Bilbo knows, knows what love is, as Thorin once more presses his lips to Bilbo’s cheek, to the bandaged wound on his forehead, to Bilbo’s eyes as they flutter shut. “Halfling,” he whispers between kisses. “Dearest hobbit. I love you so.”

 

Bilbo winds his legs up around Thorin, even now he just wants more, wants to be closer, want nothing more than this for ever. That is until Thorin starts to move and then Bilbo thinks that perhaps this is all he needs. The hot thick slide of Thorin’s cock as he presses kiss after kiss to Bilbo, Bilbo whining needily against him. The sound of Thorin’s cock moving in and out of him, wet and slick, the sound of their skin meeting. The sound of Thorin’s stuttered heavy breathing, his deep groans, his murmurs of Bilbo’s name.

 

Thorin moves slowly, steadily, achingly deep as Bilbo falls apart beneath him, digs his nails into Thorin’s back and tries to open his legs wider, tries to take him deeper, tries to kiss him harder. Thorin’s hand finds his cock once more, and Bilbo can’t find his voice, speaks instead with the way he presses himself up to Thorin, with the way he melts down into the furs, with the way his hands tangle once more up into Thorin’s braids. He feels as though he drowning, his eyes have glazed over, everything is sensation, and too much, and not enough, and Thorin is so deep, his hand so good around Bilbo’s cock. But, Gods, it is his eyes, the way Bilbo finds Thorin gazing is down at him, his eyes are brimming with love, with tenderness, with adoration for Bilbo, and just like that Bilbo is flying, falling over the edge, loud moans escaping as he comes apart under Thorin, in Thorin’s arms, Thorin deep inside.

 

The sight is too much for Thorin, his forehead comes to rest against Bilbo’s, and he groans Bilbo’s name deep against his open mouth as he comes, hips thrusting deep into Bilbo one last time. They share another kiss, long and sweet, Thorin’s hands moving to cradle Bilbo’s face once more, before he slips his softening cock free, and brushes a soft kiss to his brow, strokes away a lock of Bilbo’s hair that covers his eyes.

 

He reaches for the cloth, the warm water, and slowly, tenderly, wipes away the mess on Bilbo’s stomach before he presses a kiss to Bilbo’s softening cock, to his stomach, his wrist, his lips once more. He sets aside the cloth, and pulls Bilbo into his strong arms, cradles him there, Bilbo’s cheek pressed to his chest, enjoying the sound of Thorin’s strong heartbeat beneath his ear, his eyes drifting shut as his body lies languid in Thorin’s arms, safe in the knowledge that there he is protected, there he can stay.

“I love you my little burglar,” Thorin whispers.

“Love you too,” Bilbo murmurs. Thorin’s arms tighten around him, and Bilbo drifts into a dreamless sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And a Happy New Year to you all. May it bring you exactly what it is that you most need.


End file.
